


Sessions

by DorMarunt



Category: La casa de papel | Money Heist (TV)
Genre: (of sorts), Aftercare, All the outercourse, Alternate Universe, Arturo’s in this, BDSM, Come Swallowing, Dom/sub, Frottage, Homework, M/M, Praise Kink, Rope Bondage, Shibari, Smut, Spanking, Spoilers - he’s as asshole, Subspace, There's some:
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-12
Updated: 2021-03-18
Packaged: 2021-03-19 12:13:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 12,040
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29999166
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DorMarunt/pseuds/DorMarunt
Summary: Martín has an ‘itch’ for getting tied up that he pays to get ‘professionally scratched’.Or, the professional Dom AU that nobody asked for!
Relationships: Berlin | Andrés de Fonollosa/Palermo | Martín Berrote
Comments: 11
Kudos: 35





	1. Chapter 1

Martín checks yet again that he has the right address - he does, the number on his paper matches the number on the house. A really nice house, on a really nice street - Martín’s had the chance to see that street pretty well; he’s walked up and down a couple of times because, and he can’t stop snorting at the thought, he came early. But there he was, on the right street, at the right house, at the right time. Pressing the doorbell and fighting the last-minute impulse to flee before the door opens.

The man holding the door and making strong eye-contact is not much older than himself except he looks effortlessly handsome in his white, pressed shirt, while Martín, in his equally white and equally well-pressed shirt, looks like he took a wrong turn from an open-plan office somewhere.

Which is sort of true. It’s one of the shirts he regularly wears at work, and when he put it on earlier that evening he thought that he may be overdressed for the occasion. Now that he’s here, it seems like such a silly notion. He gets his features to arrange in what he hopes is a pleasant smile.

“Hi.” 

“Hello. Martín, right? Welcome, Martín. I’m Berlin.” 

He shows Martín inside, through a small hallway and to a large living room. He sits on an ornate chair and points Martín to sit on the one facing it, on the other side of a wooden coffee table. 

There are a lot of things on his mind at the moment, but what he settles on doing, as soon as his ass hits the seat, is to get back up, to lean over the coffee table and offer his hand.

“Uh— Hello. Hi.” 

The man smiles and shakes the hand that Martín so confidently offered while overthinking proper etiquette— what _was_ the proper etiquette when first meeting your Dom? 

“You’re nervous.”

Martín plops back on the cushioned seat, shifting a bit before he settles.

“Yes, I’m sorry—”

“Don’t apologize. Tatiana told me this is your first time coming for professional sessions, is that so?”

Martín nods, hugging his arms to his body, feeling all the more of an idiot for having just shaken his hand with his Dom. He still gets a small rush to his head when he thinks of what he’s doing, but he won’t lie and say he doesn’t like how it feels.

It takes him out of the moment for a second, the fact that he’s even doing this to begin with. He’s in a gorgeous-looking house with a gorgeous-looking man that he’s paying to professionally dominate him. Everything around him feels so much sharper, the light feels brighter coming in through the large windows, the white furniture makes everything feel so pristine.

“Tell me why you’re here.”

Right. So he has to say it again out loud, which is still news to his own ears but he can do it. He could, on the phone with Tatiana, even though he’s never met her before; he did just fine. He can do it again. 

“Well,” And then he forgets everything he told Tatiana, and he was so sure he had it. He’s forced to distill it on the spot. “I was interested in being tied up. With ropes. You know.” He nods, cheeks aflame and feeling awfully stupid for how he still can’t even go through the words.

Berlin nods, seemingly unaware of how awkward Martín feels. “Do you have any experience with it?”

“With being tied up? Yes. Some. A bit. Here and there.” He swallows around the knot in his throat, feeling like he can’t stop babbling. “I’ve been with this guy that was, uh— really good at it?”

 _'With this guy'_ actually meant 't _hey fucked exactly three times and then the guy found someone else to fuck_ ', leaving Martín with a brand new kink and no way to scratch that itch. Not well, at least.

There was something about rope, though, that almost instantly switched a button in Martín's head. The button that made everything quiet. So three times maybe wasn't big enough of a sample size to draw definite conclusions about it - either way, he feels an irresistible pull to get back into that headspace.

“I’m pretty good, too,” the man says, leaning forward just a bit. “What do you have in mind?”

Tough question. What Martín had in mind was that he’d be tied up, bossed around, fucked real good and then given a second to come down before he leaves. But when he made the appointment he chickened out and said he’d want to keep things ‘non-sexual’, which seemed like a good idea at the time, but right now he begins to regret it.

“I’m not sure how this is supposed to go? I was thinking you could tie me up; I, uh— I fall into rope space pretty quickly—” he offers, unconsciously hungry for that one thing. “—I’ve been told. I like that.” 

“Thank you for telling me. Any preferences?”

 _‘Bottoming’_ almost slips out of his lips before he realizes Berlin must mean things that were— rope-related. 

“A full body harness? And my hands,” He illustrates, bringing his forearms together - like the guy didn’t have a picture of the body parts without visual aid. He winces inwardly and Berlin shakes his head. 

“Okay, you really need to relax. Do you want something to drink? I can offer you water, coffee, I have a wide variety of teas as well. Hot cocoa, too. No alcohol, I prefer both of us to be fully sober throughout.”

“Some water, please.”

He’s learned the trick from the counselor in university, when they all got some coaching on how to perform well in job interviews. The counselor said that asking for something to drink - and then taking a sip before answering - is a good trick to buy themselves some time to relax, to think. And boy, judging by the things coming out of his mouth, Martín sure needed some time to think before opening it. Berlin comes back too quickly with a glass fogged-up with condensation, and Martín takes it, taking a sip despite not actually being thirsty.

“Alright. I think it’s safe to assume you don’t want any suspension?”

“Um,” Martín very much would like to try suspension, just— not yet. Hanging helpless from a stranger's ceiling sounds _at least_ like a third session type of thing. “No. Not yet? I don’t know. Not yet,” he settles, playing with the glass in his hand. 

“Alright. Submission too, I gather?”

Martin nods. He feels hot in weird places, from the top of his ears to his shoulders, down to his belly which is clenched around _something_ , a fire that settles low in his gut. _Submission too_.

“How do you feel about nudity?”

“Uh, I’d like to keep these on? If I can. Can I? I was, uh— thinking this would be—” god damnit Martin, words. Sentences. “Not sexual? As in we’re not going to—”

“That’s right. No penetration, no kissing.” Martín doesn’t know which one brings him more dismay. “That’s not—” and finally, Berlin is looking for words too, and Martín feels ever so slightly more relaxed. “That’s not a service I’m offering. But that doesn’t mean you’re not allowed to come. It’s been known to happen.”

“Oh. Okay.” 

Orgasms were always a bonus. He didn't plan for one, but if the possibility presents itself - he won't say no. All he wants is that nice little disconnect, that thing that scratches that itch, the one he's not even fully comfortable admitting that he's having. 

Berlin is fully at ease though; he doesn’t need any props to hide behind. He takes his time to ponder, looking right at Martín like he wants to take in everything that was offered. 

“I’m a very tactile person. Not to mention that rope bondage does involve a lot of touching. Any areas that are out of your comfort zone?”

Honestly - no, there aren’t. Be it full-body hugs or grinding against another sweaty body on the dancefloor or just getting fucked; Martín loves touching and being touched. He shakes his head.

“No, I’m fine. With being touched.” He swallows, trying to sound casual. “Wherever’s necessary. Necessary for the rope,” he adds, the raises his hands in exasperation. “I’m sorry, I’m still nervous. Well, I’m not _nervous-_ nervous, like ‘I don’t want to do this’ nervous, but enough that I can’t— Speak very eloquently. Right now.” He deflates, willing himself to stop talking. “I’m sorry.”

“Martín, please don’t apologize. For anything, least of all for being nervous. Is there anything I can do to make you feel more at ease?”

“No, you’re great. Thank you.”

“Alright. Spanking - yes or no?” 

Holy fucking whiplash, Martín almost balked at the question because he _had_ gotten more at ease - for a second. There’s some tingling in his cheeks and he can’t seem to answer without making it sound like a question.

“Yes?” 

Berlin is patient, calm when he goes through a list - oh gods, the list, Martín’s done his research, stumbled onto that list and more than half of the things on there made him shudder, but now— Now that he's actually here with this guy, he feels a little braver. Maybe.

“Degradation? Verbal or physical. Like face-slapping, spitting—” He reads Martín’s face well enough that he smiles and seems to understand. “Alright. We'll only do floor work today, I’ll get you in a full-body harness, with arms tied too - behind your back or in front?”

“Behind?”

“I’ll give you a few positions to hold - any restrictions with your motions?”

“No? I mean— like what kind of restrictions?”

“Like ‘can you be on your knees for prolonged periods of time’.”

“Oh.” Martín puffs a laughter. “Yes, I’m fine with being on my knees for prolonged periods of time.”

Luckily, Berlin laughs at his innuendo, which is a relief because Martín regretted the line as soon as it left his lips.

“Bondage already means a severe restriction to your movements. How do you feel about being gagged?”

Claustrophobic, really. Which doesn’t sound right, but Martín’s trying to think of too many things and his brain misfires. Whatever it is, it doesn’t feel right. He may not be currently able to speak in any coherent way, but he still likes having the possibility to do so.

“Not a huge fan?”

“Alright. Sensory deprivation? I’m thinking something light, like blindfolds.”

“That sounds good.”

“It can be,” says Berlin, “it sometimes improves your focus. Alright. We don’t have to do all of it tonight; in fact, it’s likely that we won’t do much past my getting you in some basic harness. My main focus is to make you feel comfortable and at ease.” 

“Thank you.” 

“I’ll be using the traffic light system to check in - green means okay, continue, yellow is slow down and we’ll stop to reevaluate, and red means we’ll stop immediately. I’ll be checking in but you have to tell me at the first second when anything veers out of ‘green’ territory. Is that okay?”

“Yes, perfect.” 

“I’m a firm believer in aftercare and communication - the session isn't over as soon as the scene is. If it’s alright with you, I’d like to check in with you tomorrow and in a couple of days to see if you’re okay. Sometimes coming down from the more intense scenes can take days, and I’d hate to leave you to go through it alone.”

“It’s— Yeah,” Martín nods, feeling like he’s cheating somehow since he organically managed to give his number to this undeniably attractive man. “Sounds good. Good thinking.”

“Good. Shall we?” He gets up and Martín follows, sad to have to leave his glass on the table.

It’s a large room, there’s even a fireplace - _in Buenos Aires_ \- a bed that Martín barely notices because beside it, in a corner of the room, there’s a glass cabinet that just— draws him in. There’s a lot going on in there, there are canes and floggers and riding crops, and — plugs. Vibrators. There are other things on the shelves below but Martín doesn’t think he can process seeing more. He turns, ending up uncomfortably close to a smiling Berlin.

“I know; I just upgraded from the ‘chest of toys under the bed’ to ‘should I put in lights?’ but I like it.” He steps back, looking at the case. “I really think that lights would have been tacky.” 

Yep, Martín thinks, _that’s_ what would have been tacky. 

The whole place is such a tasteful shade of kitsch that it surely has to be done on purpose. It is all marvelous over the top cliches, with toys on display and a mirror right across from the bed, and it’s reminding Martín exactly why he is there.

“That’s a really nice collection.”

“Thank you. We won’t be needing any of that for today’s session, you can breathe now.” 

Right - he was holding his breath and wasn’t even aware of it. He takes a couple of breaths, looking around, catching the eyes of his own reflection in the tall mirror on the wall beside him.

“I understand you said no nudity, but how comfortable would you be in just your underwear and your undershirt? I advise wearing less constricting clothes during rope play.” 

That’s one less layer than Martín had in mind, but— he’d still be covered. And if he does get hard - which given his previous reactions when getting tied up, is a real possibility - pants won’t do that much to hide it anyway. 

“It’s fine.” Still, he blushes when he unzips and starts lowering his pants - then looks up at Berlin, slightly horrified. “I hope you meant now, because—” He has one foot out of his pants already, but is more than willing to pull them up again if he overstepped.

“Yes. Fold them and put them on that chair,” Berlin nods towards one of the leather chairs that sit on either side of the mirror. He tries to avoid his reflection when he takes off his shirt too, folds it, unfolds it and places it over the back of the chair. He can still see, with the corner of his eye, Berlin’s figure standing in the middle of the room, watching him. It does so many things to Martín, to find himself watched so intently, the sole focus of a man so intense as Berlin; there’s a thin thrill of something that echoes like shame running through him when he turns, wearing nothing but a black pair of boxers and a thin undershirt. 

There’s a definite dynamic there, made all the more obvious by the fact that Martín is in his underclothes, while Berlin is still fully dressed, stylish in his - no doubt - custom tailored clothes. He seems like the type of guy you imagine standing to have his measures taken, with people knelt all around him.

“Come here.” 

So he does, and it’s just like dancing, like being lead - except this time, Berlin’s voice is the intent behind the motions; Berlin speaks and Martín, he just does.

He knows precisely when to stop, he read it in a twitch of Berlin’ lips. He stands there, belly aflutter, just waiting. 

“Get on your knees.”

Just like that, Berlin changed from the calm tone to a commanding one, and Martín follows without any conscious intent.

He drops to his knees where he stood, so hard that he should feel it. He knows he should, but can’t. 

“Spread your knees, palms on your thighs, facing up.”

Could he close his eyes? He sort of wants to but then he wasn’t told to do it so— he doesn’t, but he does open his legs wider, places his hands as instructed. It’s strange, what the position does to him, how it sort of dulls everything, especially the noise in his head. 

“Good boy,” Berlin says, and it’s _magic_ , the way he feels the words, how they slice into him so sweetly. 

Berlin moves behind him, walks away, a drawer opens then closes. A few seconds of silence, and then the man approaches Martín slowly, until he’s right behind him. Then there’s no movement, no sounds.

It’s surprisingly easy to disconnect, to focus on his limbs, on his breath, to feel just how exposed he is like that. His spine curls with the expanse of his chest when he takes a deep breath and closes his eyes. Time passes, that’s what it does, but Martín doesn’t care - he’s more relaxed than he’s been in months, and he simply basks in it.

“Let me look at you,” comes Berlin’s voice - he must have moved, Martín didn’t even notice. He is facing him now, so Martín opens his eyes, looks up.

“You’re doing so well. Think you can stand up for me?”

And Martín can, after his body remembers how to move. He stands, lowering his head for— reasons he isn’t willing to parse just then. That’s when he notices the rope, an undyed coil in Berlin’s hand, definitely fancier than what his _ex_ used. Martín is transfixed by it.

“It’s jute. Do you want to feel it?”

Hesitantly, Martín does, running his fingers over the weave. He wishes he’d taken his undershirt off, too; he’s dying to feel the rope around him. He nods, not knowing what sort of feedback is expected of him. 

“Feels nice.”

“It does,” says Berlin, taking it back and unwinding it, letting the ends drop. They whoosh and swirl around their feet while Berlin folds it in two, then he approaches. He makes sure that Martín can see his every movement, which Martín eagerly watches. 

A small knot - he measures the rope - another one, lower. The larger loop slips over Martín’s head, and Berlin pulls at the small loop behind Martín’s neck, then measures again and makes another knot along his chest. He knows this pattern, Martín thinks, exhaling a little deeper. The fact that it’s familiar helps, and he looks down with hungry interest. 

There are a few more knots before he’s instructed to widen his stance - which he does - then Berlin kneels in front of him. He measures, pulling the rope right to the side of Martín’s cock, then makes a knot and treads it around the bulge in his underwear, then back between his legs and up. Berlin shifts to his back, pulling the rope, making it ride Martín’s asscrack just a little, then treads it between the loop at the back of his neck. He pulls, making absolutely unavoidable the fact that Martín was getting hard. 

It was also called, ‘the happy knot’, the one under his balls. It was supposed to press on his prostate, and even though it wasn’t - yet - it certainly wasn’t helping things, erection-wise. The fact that the man then gets so close, almost flush to his back, motioning him to lift his arms then wrapping his own around him, all of that— Martín’s brain was starting to mix things. 

Berlin pulls the rope under the strands on his chest, sliding it slowly underneath, and the slip of it against Martín’s skin, dulled by cotton, feels like mellow electricity. His eyes have drifted shut and he sways with the swift pull that secures the ropes at his back. He’s embraced again, then there’s the slip of the rope, and Martín— He’s slipping too. His head falls to the side, heavy, and there’s a small fizzle on the surface of his brain.

“You’re doing so well,” comes a voice, a little muted, and Martín’s body betrays him, yet again. His cock pulses, filling further, uncomfortable in the cotton. Berlin either doesn’t notice or doesn’t care; he’s right there, in front of him now - somehow - and he’s pulling at the rope. Martín’s eyes are open, which begins to feel like a chore so he closes them again. He moves when the rope is tugged, settles when a hand lies on his shoulder, steadying him.

“Color?”

Such a strange question, Martín thinks to himself, before a faraway notion fights to the surface of his consciousness. 

“Yes, green,” he says, prying his eyes open.

“Good. I’ll tie your hands now, is that alright?”

“Yes.”

He’s coming back to the surface now, and remembers the mirror. He can see himself now, and turns to see the back, too - the ropework’s impressive, but he shouldn’t have been surprised. He turns to Berlin, who watches him too, with a glimmer in his eye.

“You were right, about how easily you fall into subspace. I think it would be more comfortable if you were kneeling for this one, I want you to be a bit more— stable.”

“Yeah,” Martín says, then waits for a second, until Berlin actually tells him.

“On your knees.” 

He ends up in Berlin’s arms again; he’s knelt behind him, wrapping around him to take one of his hands in his. It’s like ballet, the way Berlin guides his arm out then back, then folds it at the elbow and pins it there. He comes back up, taking Martín’s other arm and moving it slowly in the same way, until his hands are both behind his back, with Berlin’s fingers wrapped around them both.

Martín feels opened up like this, with his shoulders pulled back and his chest out. He can breathe deeper and when he does, when his chest expands with a hungry breath, the rope digs softly in his skin. There’s a sharp tug at his hands that pulls him out before he falls back, sinking deeper with every whish of the rope as it slides against cotton and the strange caress of it against his skin.

It should be quiet, and it probably is - Martín can’t tell; all he can hear is the blood pumping in his ears, loud despite the static that tingles through his whole body. And then Berlin hums, a deep vibration that travels through his chest where it’s pressed to Martín’s back, and he shivers. His body is doing its own thing, the shiver that ran through him ends in a moan and his dick is getting harder— he’s all blood; the blood ringing in his ears, filling his cock, the copper he swears he feels on the roof of his mouth. 

Berlin is touching his forearms, his shoulders - warm hands that splay against his shoulder blades and then Martín dips back. He doesn’t know what possessed him, maybe the presence of the hands right there was an invitation that his body read, he can’t be sure. But he’s leaning back, held securely by Berlin’s hands until his back rests against his chest. It’s not weightlessness what he feels, but it’s just as foreign - the new angle of his body; the way he feels drunk when his brain is trying to keep up. 

More touching, except this time Berlin’s fingers touch along the rope on his chest, and even though it’s dulled by fabric, the touch burns. At some point, their breaths must have synced and now Martín lets his body move with Berlin’s in the twin rise and fall of their chests. 

The word is almost whispered in his ear. “Color?”

“Green,” Martín surprises himself saying, way more clearly than he thought he could. 

“You’re doing so well,” comes another whisper. Martín opens his eyes and is met with Berlin’s staring right into his own from above. He’s upside down and it feels so strange, the way he looks at him with dark eyes that seem to consume him. It’s almost too much, and Martín lets his eyelids fall back down, heavy.

The slow-motion dizziness settles again when Berlin slowly lifts him so that he’s sitting straight again; it takes a moment for his brain to catch up with it all and he barely notices, barely feels it when the body behind him shifts. He feels unsupported like that, like it’s a burden to will his spine to hold him up. His head falls forward - he’s heavy on the outside, almost as heavy as he feels light on the inside.

“Look at me,” comes a voice. Berlin is in front of him now, on his feet, and his fingers cup Martín’s chin, helping him lift his head. Martín’s brain is silent, useless. Working on the most basic of levels. When he looks up, from Berlin’s legs to his crotch, to his now-wrinkled shirt, then at his beautiful face. Martín sighs. Or, at least, that’s what he thought was coming out, but instead he moaned, the thrill of the realization raising pinpricks of blood in his cheeks. 

“So beautiful,” Berlin says, looking at him with a sort of hungry reverence. Martín moans again, tilting his head until those fingers, that hand, cups his cheek instead. It rests there, warm and soft until the pressure increases, ever so slightly, and Martín follows their intention, getting up on his knees.

The harness pulls when he moves; it doesn’t hurt, it’s just there, so he pushes his chest out, feeling the pleasant dig of the ropes around his dick. He’s hard, he’s been hard for a while and Berlin surely noticed. But he aches, he wants, he needs, and doesn’t know how or what— 

“Do you want to come?”

‘ _Oh my god yes please, fuck, yes, please,_ ’ he thinks, but only realizes halfway that it’s all in his head. 

“Please,” he breathes, looking hopeful, uncertain.

Berlin steps closer, until his thigh rests against Martín’s chest, his crotch right in Martín’s face. 

“What—” He begins to ask, but as means of answer, Berlin pushes his leg even further, until his shin touches Martín’s erection. “Oh.”

“You can come like this,” he says, so definite and sure that Martín thinks that yes, he absolutely can. 

He shuffles forward just a bit, his movements slow and awkward with the way his his hands are tied, but he slots his dick against Berlin’s thigh and presses forward and—

His face falls against Berlin’s hip, so close to his dick, so— 

This isn’t about that, Martín thinks, but at the same time he’s pressing his cock against Berlin’s leg, he’s rubbing himself against him, it is _absolutely_ about that, but not— not like this— 

It’s uncomfortable. He’s uncomfortable, he wants to adjust himself in his boxers but he can’t, and his shoulders pull with helplessness when he tries to move his hands. The rope is solid around his arms but it doesn’t hurt. Nothing hurts, even the things that should - he’s grinding against bone, through layers of bunched-up cotton, and it’s everything; it’s sweet release and hungry need, a loop that feeds itself, that fills him so much, so quickly, so—

Everything feels— more. Even the fabric of Berlin’ pants, when it rubs against Martín’s cheek feels so— detailed, it’s like he can feel the pattern, fiber woven under fiber; it’s sharp, it’s grounding. But then Martín opens his eyes and through the glaze, he sees himself. The image in the mirror shocks a muted whimper out of him - it’s striking, how debauched he looks, rutting against Berlin's leg, bound, with his face pressed so tightly to the outside of his thigh. 

He looks obscene like this, he looks shameless, slutty. 

And then he looks up and sees Berlin’s reflection, sees how he watches him, sees his hand come up to the back of Martín’s head to brush at the short hairs here, then come back up to cup his cheek. Berlin sees him watching them, and catches his eyes in the mirror.

“Now.”

And, as if the words were magic, as if Martín’s body was run by Berlin’s intentions, spoken or not, Martín comes. He comes with his eyes locked to Berlin’s in the mirror, watching his own body curl into the last couple of thrusts, sees himself shudder, hears the moan that leaves his parted lips. The orgasm wrings him out entirely and he sags against the leg pressed to him before his cock finishes pumping stickily into his briefs.

“So good,” comes Berlin’s voice, maybe a little lower, a little breathier. “You’ve done so good,” he says, dropping to his knees and Martín almost whines at the praise, sagging against Berlin’s body. 

He takes Martín’s weight again, resting his head against his chest. Martín can hear Berlin’s heartbeat like that, an easy rhythm that he falls into, just like he does the arms that wrap around him.

He doesn’t feel entirely there when Berlin unties him. He’s maneuvered, moved and turned, and his hands get a short massage where the ropes dug in. He doesn’t notice any of that, not consciously, at least - most of his rebooting brain cells are stuck on one thing, one image - that of the erection quite visible in Berlin’s trousers when he knelt in front of him.

He’s still stuck on that image when Berlin helps him sit on the side of the bed - still hard, still not mentioning it. Martín doesn’t, either.

“You did beautiful, Martín,” he concludes, looking at him with something akin to pride. 

Something feels different, like whatever magic they were swimming through earlier has lifted. 

“Do you want something to drink? You probably need a sweet pick-me-up, would you like some tea with honey? Or maybe some hot cocoa - I did mention the hot cocoa.”

“Yes, that,” Martín nods. “Hot cocoa.” Because why not; it seems completely inappropriate given what just happened, but that was— not entirely appropriate either, in quite a few circles. What’s some hot cocoa to top all that off.

“I’ll let you get dressed. The bathroom is down the hall, if you need it. I’ll be waiting for you in the living room when you’re done. Take your time.”

Martín feels like a whole new person when he steps in the living room. He’s done his best to clean himself up, but it will still be quite uncomfortable to get back home with his come-sticky briefs. He’s considered taking them off but it seemed inappropriate, somehow - not to mention that he certainly couldn’t mask their bulge if he bunched them up in his pocket. So he’s uncomfortable when he sits on that chair, in front of a steaming cup of cocoa.

“This is really good.”

“It’s a recipe I learned while in Vienna; I was there—” Berlin cuts himself abruptly, then takes a sip from his own cup. “A while ago,” he finishes, setting the cup down. He smiles as he settles back. “Was it what you were hoping for?”

It was so much more.

He nods.

“I didn’t expect— well, I didn’t know what to expect but this wasn’t it. It was— amazing?”

How it ended up as a question again, Martín doesn’t know. He doesn’t feel as awkward as he did when he came in, but his speech must not have caught up with it yet. 

“How do you feel?”

“Amazing?” Wait, no, he already said that. “Great. Good.”

Berlin smiles, playing with his own cup, turning it on the small saucer but never quite lifting it.

"Do you want to talk about it some more? You can ask me anything.”

Martín really wants to ask, he needs to know— what Berlin gets out of this arrangement. He was obviously affected by it, despite what he said about the services he offers. And there it was again, the little reminder that he was paid to do that, to get Martín in that headspace. To allow him to submit. It didn’t make it feel any less real, though, but he doesn’t feel like he can quite ask what he wants to know. 

He wants to ask about submission, why he enjoys it, why it takes him where it does, he wants to know if it really was okay that he brought himself to orgasm. He wants to know if he did well - to hear it again, Berlin’s praise, all his sweet words of encouragement. There are a lot of things he wants to ask, a few that Berlin surely couldn’t answer for him, but he doesn’t feel like he can put any of that in words. He shakes his head, pulling his shoulders up.

“Alright. Sometimes it takes a while to come down after an intense scene - and you did go in pretty deep. As I said before, I want to make sure that my clients are okay after we play. I already have your number from Tatiana, but I’ll give you mine in case you need to talk, or to ask me something. Is that alright?”

“Yes,” because it was more than alright. 

Berlin gets up, walks to the fireplace and retrieves a piece of paper from the mantle. It’s a business card, Martín sees when Berlin hands it to him. Simple, white, with just the name ‘Berlin’ in plain lettering, and a phone number. Nothing else.

That felt like a ‘our time is up’ but said without words, and Martín catches onto the feeling immediately. He swallows hard when he realizes it’s time for, probably, the most awkward part of it all. The money.

He gets up, shifting ever so slightly where he stands, wondering if maybe he should have left the money back in the other room - was there even a bedside table there? Martín didn’t notice. Was it a thing, though, leaving money on the bedside table?

...should he have paid _before_ they started?

Berlin seems to read his mind; his smile is wide, amused.

“It’s only awkward if you make it awkward.”

That’s how he ends up digging his hand in his pocket, grabbing the folded bills and handing them to Berlin, who takes them and doesn’t even look before putting them in his own pocket.

There, it wasn’t _terrible_.

Martín hopes he’ll do better next time.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Martin's... processing things.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Check the tags :)

Berlin sends him a message later that night. It just says, _‘Color_?’ which somehow takes Martín completely by surprise. He sends back, after waiting a respectful two and a half minutes, _‘Green’_. He then sets his phone down, takes his book, flips through until he finds the bookmark.

His phone chimes again.

‘ _Everything alright_?’

 _‘Yes_.’ Martín types, then hesitates before sending. He should probably elaborate. Not in too much detail, like how he jerked off in the shower as soon as he got home, or again after getting in bed. He’s pretty sure their session provided him with enough material so see him through the next couple of months, at least. He can’t think of anything appropriate to say, so he eventually adds a ‘ _Thank you_.’ and hits send.

 _‘You_?’ He sends it almost immediately, suddenly reminded of societal conventions. He looks at the screen, waiting for a new message which comes after a few long minutes. 

‘ _I’m fine, thank you for asking. You can always contact me if you need to talk. Berlin_ ’

Martín stares at the screen for a while - Berlin’s signature seems like a punctuation mark to end the conversation - and when he’s pretty sure there are no more messages coming, he places the phone back on his night stand. He doesn’t even pretend to go back to the book, placing it next to his phone, and he gets under the covers. It’s too early for sleep, but he’s in no state to read. His mind keeps slipping back to their _session_ and random details keep popping up out of nowhere, sprouting little twinges of arousal. Berlin’s fingers sliding along the rope on his chest, the rush he felt when simply meeting Andrés’ eyes staring into his, upside down— how he looked while rutting against his leg. 

He manages to wring a weak, almost dry orgasm out of himself, then finally falls asleep.

The next day Martín almost forgets all about his previous evening, so caught up in a last-minute presentation that he needs to prepare for some higher-ups. He puts way too much effort in it, making it begrudgingly detailed. He hates where he ended up; behind a desk, spending so little of his day doing what he loved doing - building things, using that brain of his for things that weren’t finding the right font size and color scheme.

His phone rings right as he sends the presentation, one eye already on the clock. He managed to hit lunch time perfectly, and half-thinks to ignore his cell and to just go get lunch - after all, he’s on break, whoever it was could wait— 

It was Berlin. 

Martín jumps up, looks around and gets inside the first empty conference room that he finds, picking up the phone as soon as he closes the door behind him.

“Hello Martín. Is this a good time?”

“Yes, perfect time; I was just about to go to lunch.” Berlin surely knows this, given how precisely he timed the call. 

“Then I’ll let you eat, I’ll come back later. Before that, though, I—”

“No, it’s fine. I have plenty of time.”

“I wanted to check in.”

“Oh. No, everything is fine. I’m fine. Thank you.” And there it was - his inability to speak was back. He doesn’t know what else to say; he plays with a marker he’s found discarded on the table, waiting for Berlin to offer some help with the conversation.

“Alright. If anything comes up - even if it feels— awkward at first, feel free to contact me.”

“I will,” Martín says, wondering if this was protocol, if Berlin did this with all his clients. Did he have a list? Was lunchtime his allotted time for check-ins? 

“Well. Take care, Martín.”

“Uh— thanks, you too.”

And the line falls silent.

Martín eats alone on a bench in the nearby park, chewing his sandwich on auto-pilot, completely disconnected from everything around him, and finally begins to process things.

He’s a total sub. Anything he’s done before, anything he’s seen or dreamt of, they don’t even come close to how good it was to be knelt in Berlin’s presence, wrapped in rope and feeling _so light_. It’s all he can think about for the rest of the day, it doesn’t even register when his manager berates him in front of his colleagues for some perceived flaws in his presentation.

Beer with friends should have drawn him out of it but it did nothing but keep him on edge, periodically checking his phone.

He’s checking it constantly, even at work. Roman, his manager, finds it necessary to mention it - loudly - when they meet by the coffee machines. Martín checks his screen before looking up at Arturo, turning it off and sliding it in his pocket as he’s making eye contact. Surely the guy was expecting some sort of defense from Martín, but he just puts on a fake smile and walks around the guy to get back to his own desk. 

It’s been three days since he’s met Berlin, and it’s still the only thing he can think about. 

Roman picks on him once again, during a meeting, making a big fuss about how the estimations Martín provided were wrong - except they weren’t. The fact that Martín explained, as detachedly as he possibly could so that he wouldn’t explode with rage, why the numbers were correct, only managed to make Roman angrier. 

The verbal lashing he’s gotten, post-meeting, was done with the door open and with a tone so condescending that Martín felt like running the guy right through the glass wall behind him.

Sometimes life takes you places and you can only try to hang on - that’s how Martín ended up working there in the first place, putting that degree of his to minimal use, telling himself that it’s just an unpleasant but necessary step to getting where he wants to get. He doesn’t seem to be getting there though, and it’s hard to say if he’s impatient, or simply on the wrong path - either way, he hates it.

He hates where he is, he hates what he does and hates the fact that he ended up allowing someone like the snivelling Arturo Roman to walk all over him. And here’s the thing; Martín just realized that all those times, all those jabs that the guy gave him, were surely meant to humiliate him. They just - don’t.

And yet, he can still remember in vivid detail being on his knees in that room, he remembers the heady pull he felt when Berlin gave him orders - and he marvels at how that’s such a different thing altogether. 

The phone rings from far away - Martín has left it in the kitchen - and he almost trips over his feet in getting there. Just like he hoped, and maybe even a little bit feared, it was Berlin.

“Hello.”

“Hi. Hello,” Martín pulls a chair from under the kitchen table and sits down. There’s a feeling of anticipation that almost overshadows the fact that he has no idea what to say - _almost_.

“How are you?”

“Fine.” He nods, mostly for his own benefit. “All good. You?”

“Martín, it may have been your first session, but it wasn’t mine. I know everyone is different; the endless variety of the human experience and all that, but I can hear it in your voice.”

‘ _Hear what_ ,’ Martín almost asks. Instead, he repeats. “I’m fine.”

There’s a brief pause on the other end of the line - Martín must be projecting, but it feels like Berlin is _displeased_. 

For good reason, too - he’s been waiting for this call for days and he still feels oddly unprepared when he gets it. So he just says the first thing that comes to mind. 

“I’m sorry, I’ve just had a rough day at work.”

“I’m sorry to hear,” comes Berlin’s voice, polite.

“Yeah, my manager’s a dick. He gets off on—” Martín sighs, annoyed. He hates giving that guy so much of his thoughts, but there he is, thinking about him again. “It’s like he enjoys humiliating me in front of my colleagues. And it’s a desk job, it’s not like we’re out there saving lives, making some sort of real-world difference. He thinks he’s so important, he thinks he can just— Uhh, sorry, I didn’t mean to— Say any of that.” And as soon as he realizes that he could not only speak, but he could do it well and in great quantities, he abruptly stops talking.

“No, it’s fine. Is that what’s bothering you?”

Berlin is quiet, giving Martín the space to speak - or be quiet. Still, he chooses to speak, to say the thing that’s been nagging at him for the past few days. 

“I don’t know why I enjoy this.” Then, after a second. “Not the work thing, the other thing.” 

“The submission?” 

Martín nods, then remembers he’s on the phone. 

“I don’t know what it— says about me? I’m not like that. I’m not—”

“It’s all about context,” comes Berlin’ voice, calm. “And it feels to me like there are two things in there. Why are you enjoying this? It can be for any number of reasons. You can like the feeling of letting go, of being free to not make choices for a while in a space that is safe. You can like the feeling of submission, that trust and adoration. Or it can be that it just gets you hard or gets you off. As to what it says about you? Is it by any chance about ‘the work thing’?”

“Umm,” Martín starts, wondering if the glass of water trick worked over the phone as well. How did Berlin zero-in to that so easily? “Maybe? Look, the guy’s a complete idiot and feels like he has to compensate for being the dumbest guy in the room by belittling others just because he somehow landed in middle-management. The way he speaks to me, it makes me—” He has to exhale to vent out some of the rage. He was beginning to babble again; that wasn’t even what he wanted to say. “I’m not like that, I don’t— _kneel_ to idiots.” 

Maybe he meant to say ‘bow’, but it was out now. Maybe it _was_ what he wanted to say. 

“Malicious, public humiliation is one thing, doing it privately and consensually is another. And the fact that you willingly submit to someone, in a completely different context, does not mean that you’re a submissive person in other aspects of your life. Or that you have to be.”

Well, it makes sense now, coming from Berlin. Succinctly put and right to the point.

The gates around Martín’s speech center begin to rise in his head.

“Oh. That’s— Thank you.”

“I’m not a therapist, though. But I _can_ give you a few good resources to go through that can further help you make sense of things.”

“Yeah, that would be great.”

Martín goes through the pleasantries a little numbly, with the tips of his ears burning, for some reason. He gets a couple of long texts that read like a bibliography, then opens his laptop and starts searching. 

Only on Friday does he finally gather the courage to make that call. He rushes home and calls Berlin as soon as he gets inside his apartment, a knot twisting in his stomach already. Right as Berlin picks up, he has a moment of panic, a small realization - did he have to settle this through Tatiana?

“Hello Martín.”

“Sorry, I wanted to know— I uh.” He stops, draws in a deep breath and collects his thoughts. “I was wondering when I could see you again. Should I have called Tatiana?”

“No, this is fine. Tatiana isn't my… madame. She just routes possible clients my way. Thank you for calling. Are you okay?”

“Yes?” And maybe he would have been more believable if he hadn’t phrased it as a question but there he was. “Yes. I wanted to schedule another session.” There, an actual sentence. 

“When did you have in mind?”

“Saturday? This Saturday. Tomorrow.” 

“Hmm.” There’s some noise coming from the other side of the phone, and Berlin’ voice comes like it’s further away before there’s more shifting with the phone. “I have the afternoon booked, so it’s either before noon, or on Sunday; how about three PM?”

“Sunday seems fine. three PM.” He doesn’t know what else to say. “See you then?”

“See you, Martín.” And the line cuts off. 

Martín spends most of his Saturday reading. He had his eyes on a few blogs as well, planning to read them on Sunday, but he ends up being completely distracted from the moment he wakes up. Why did he agree to three PM? What kind of hour was that? 

He jerks off twice, once before even getting out of bed, and the next time in the shower after lunch, as he’s getting ready. He’s been doing that a lot these days, completely overwhelmed by flashes from their session. The last couple of times though, new images crept up in his fantasies, new things that Martín is really curious about.

So when he finds himself in front of that coffee table again, with Berlin looking at him with his satisfied smile, Martín is ready.

“Thank you for the reading list you gave me. It really— helped.” he nods.

“I’m glad.”

He’s more prepared now when they get to discussing things like limits, pain thresholds, punishments, and other important details. Research proved to be that much easier to assimilate now that Martín started to understand it.

“Do you have any requests for today?”

“You mentioned, last time, uh— spanking?” 

He’s flushing, he knows it because he feels it on his cheeks and the tip of his ears, but also because Berlin sees it too, and smiles.

“You flush so pretty,” says Berlin, which only serves to make Martín blush further. “I like that idea. Can you be more specific about what you had in mind? What position you’d like to be in, what implement you’d like? You can choose anything you like from the case.”

The case still intimidates Martín, for some reason - at least, the items he’s less than familiar with did. One day, though - one day he’d like to try a couple of things from there. Not today, though. 

“I’d like, maybe an open hand?” 

“Sounds perfect. Through your clothes or would you like to go bare skin?”

“Bare skin? If that’s alright? I know I said no-nudity last time, but I’d like to feel—” _you,_ he thinks, “—the rope. Is that alright?”

Berlin’s smile tugs at one corner of his mouth first. “It’s alright. I prefer my submissives naked. Any preferred position or may I suggest something?”

'I prefer my submissives naked' has instantly etched itself in Martín's list of hottest sentences. Whatever ideas Martín may have had about the scene have just been erased.

“I, uh. don’t know, actually. What did you have in mind?”

“I can show you. Shall we?”

Berlin seems to have found the exact spot he stood in the last time they were there. He stands right there, watching Martín until he feels himself settle. 

“First of all,” Berlin says, “the chair on the left.” With an almost imperceptible move of his head, he points to it, and Martín follows his unspoken intent. There seemed to be no in-between time, a moment for him to get into that headspace - had the short walk to this room been that moment? But that moment’s passed, and in this moment Martín thinks he knows what Berlin is going to say, but he’s dying to hear it nonetheless. 

“Strip.”

Something clicks into place for Martín, and he _settles_ in just the way that he needed. 

He liked it the last time, taking off his clothes under Berlin’s eyes. 

Martín's put on a brand new shirt today, one he’s bought specifically for the occasion from one of the stores that he'd never been in before. He likes the way it fits him, the way it brings out the blue in his eyes, but not as much as he likes how it feels to be taking it off. He’s just pulling the shirt free from his pants, starts undoing the buttons and feels his pulse begin to race. The pants come off next, then the socks. He hesitates for a second, with his breath held, before pulling his briefs down too. He can see himself in the mirror, he can see Berlin where he stands and watches him. It’s still a small thrill to turn around, to show himself, without any layer to hide behind.

His nudity feels— appropriate. And Berlin seems pleased.

“Get that chair over here. Facing that way.” 

Martín brings the heavy chair over. It’s a strange set-up, with the mirror behind it, which probably means that Martín won’t be able to see himself from where he is - something he has a lot of feelings about.

Berlin stands by the bed - there’s something almost theatrical in how he moves and presents the reality around him. Right now, he has his hands behind his back, shoulders squared, and he beckons Martín over.

“Thank you. Now,” he says, and turns to take the length of rope that was laying on the bed behind him - strange how it had been there the whole time but Martín couldn’t take his eyes off Berlin to notice it. “I’m going to put you in a chest harness, with your arms tied behind your back. Then I’m going to spank you over the back of the chair over there.”

 _‘Great,’_ Martín thinks, as the words dance like fog in his brain _, ‘this is how I die_.’

They do the small dance again; Martin stands while Berlin wraps him in a chest harness, moving around him, embracing him, lifting his arms and moving them as he needs. It takes mere minutes to feel the haze start to settle - he’s distantly aware of the rope hugging him, jolts when Berlin periodically pulls at the rope, swiftly pushing the breath out of him. And then the movements stop and Martín is brought a little closer to the surface.

“Kneel,” comes Berlin’s voice from behind him. Martin goes down on his knees with the sharp pull at the back of the harness, where Berlin holds him. He doesn’t let go of that column even as kneels behind Martín. “Hands behind your back - this time bring them together, vein to vein.”

Not an easy task, even for Martín who was fairly flexible. But he rolls his shoulders back, gets his elbows as close together as he can, and holds. 

“That’s very good, Martín.”

The praise was new for Martín, he did not expect it the last time, does not expect it now - and it fills something in him that he didn’t know was empty. It somehow goes along so deliciously with the small burn that’s blooming in his shoulders and elbows when he holds his hands like that. It’s an unnatural position to be in and he’s beginning to feel the strain, but it only lasts until Berlin’s hand settles between his shoulders. He relaxes into that touch, allows himself to bend forward slightly when Berlin pushes, making most of the strain disappear. 

The first loop slides to just above his elbows. There’s a tug, and then it begins to wrap around his arms two more times, then slides between his arms and twists a few times, bringing his arms closer. The next loop falls right under his elbows, and it’s almost the same motions - there’s a small tug, then the rope goes around his arms, then between them and around the rope, and again lower, like the wrungs of a ladder and— 

Martín is aware of every single one of Berlin’s movements, he can picture them so vividly, even though from this position he can’t see the mirror, he can’t see what it looks like.

What _they_ look like.

He can feel it, though, in the pull of his shoulders and the stretch of his arms. He’s not even aware of how much he was leaning forward until Berlin’s hands come around his shoulders and pulls them back, completely changing his posture. It reminds him of yoga - another ex of his did yoga - in how there seems to be so much power in inhabiting a pose.

Martín swallows hard, feeling his Adam’s apple bob up and down around the knot he was apparently having in his throat. It only gets larger, pressing from within when Berlin speaks softly, so close to his ear, “You’re being so good, Martín. How do you feel?”

“Egh— Green.” His voice sounds foreign when he speaks. He coughs, then finally seems to understand the question. “I’m good. So good.” 

And he can’t see Berlin, but he can swear that he can hear his smile. 

“Good. Now you know this - settle against your heels, knees wide.” 

Martín knew what was next, placing his palms on his thighs, facing up. He’s re-run that scene in his head so many times, trying to understand why it did what it did to him, but he usually ended up— distracted. 

He’s getting hard.

It was a surprise that it didn’t happen sooner, Martín realizes as he quietly accepts that it’s happening anyway. That his cock is right there, on display, he’s getting hard and Berlin can see him - and seems to like what he sees.

Which, to Martín, is the biggest mindfuck of it all.

Because Berlin is enjoying this too, even though he doesn’t— 

Martín can’t make sense of it, and he’s not sure he wants to. Right now he’s enjoying the moment for all it is - intense and intimate, powerful and complicated. Because Berlin - who’s just taken a seat on the large chair in front of Martín - looks at him like he wants to devour him, and all that Martín wants is to do anything that man says.

He stays like that for the longest time, until he starts to hear his heartbeat come slower and his breath falls in a cadence that Martín is drawn into. He's in a place where time just— isn't.

“Look at me.” Berlin's voice breaches his mind bubble so naturally now.

So he does, Martín opens his eyes. Berlin rests his weight on one elbow that's digging into the arm of the chair, legs spread wide. He looks unfairly handsome with his broken smile, looking like he’s absolutely earned all the cockiness that he’s exuding. He holds Martín’s gaze before raising his eyebrows.

“Green,” says Martín, because that felt like a question. It might have been, because Berlin nods, then straightens up in his chair. He pulls down at the front of his vest, smooths over his coat as he settles. 

“Come here.”

It shouldn’t feel this good, walking naked and on his knees. And he shouldn’t be getting hard because, and not _in spite_ of the undercurrent of shame that runs through him either - but there he was. 

Berlin urges him closer, close enough that he’s almost flush with the chair now, right between his thighs. Martín’s cock doesn’t care that things are not going the way they usually do when he finds himself in his position; it jumps with a rush of blood, getting harder. Martín whimpers, taken by surprise when one of Berlin’s hands curls in the hair at the back of his head, forcing him to look up at him. Shit, he’s been staring.

“Be good.” Berlin tugs once more, then releases Martín’s hair. 

They are _so_ close. Martín only had to get up on his knees and he could just— 

He’d probably end up being thrown out.

But it’s so tempting. 

Berlin’s lips. 

No; he’s getting confused. Berlin’s _hand_. 

“Spank me,” he says, violently blushing as he hears himself actually saying that, out loud. “Please.” It’s whispered, but at least it’s not a question.

“First, I’ll have to take you out of your arm binder.”

“Okay.”

He misses the feeling as soon as the rope begins to unwind, knots sliding loose - it does feel good, to a degree, but he misses the restraint. His ex used significantly cheaper rope; this thing that Berlin had him in feels so different when it slides against his skin - Berlin’s skills certainly help, too. Even when undoing the knots he’s patient, thorough, rubbing Martín’s arms and shoulders as soon as he rolls them. 

“Any pain, numbness, tingling?”

“No,” and he’s a little surprised himself to find that it’s true. He looks at his arms and can see the indentations left by the rope and it’s making him just a little dizzy. They’re fascinating, the parallel rows of lines, preserving the weave of the rope so well. 

“I want you over the back of that chair. Hands on the seat in front of you.”

It takes Martín a second to visualize the instructions. He gets behind the chair, electricity crackling throughout his body as he bends over, with the soft swell of leather back pressing into his belly. His heels don’t touch the floor once he plants his hands into the seat cushion. 

He’s doing it. Why _is_ he doing it? 

Honestly, who cares; he is doing it and it feels amazing. 

If it were possible for Martín to get any harder, he would have. He puts himself on display for Berlin, who walks over, eyes slipping from the chair to the mirror behind Martín. When he disappears behind Martín’s line of sight, he ends up so close that Martín can feel the fabric of his suit brush against his naked ass. He almost falls forward when one of Berlin’s feet kicks the inside of his own, making him widen his stance.

“Spread your legs - there.” 

How can he not get confused? Martín does the worst possible thing, and almost stops in mortification when he realizes that he’s slowly grinding against the soft cushion that now traps his cock between his belly and the chair. 

“I’m sorry—”

Berlin hums a laughter, shifting behind Martín. “Some days,” he starts, slotting his body so tantalizingly close to Martín’s, leaning even closer. “what you really need is to completely give away the reins, entrusting your body in someone’s hands - but others, you need to take every drop of what you’re offered. And I want you to take _everything_ , Martín.” He slides one of his hands down Martín’s back, cutting over to his hips, sneaking his fingers between the chair and his skin. Maybe he’s not clear enough, maybe Martín can’t breach the meaning of the words - he’s left behind, but Berlin keeps talking. “You’re getting fifteen swats. I’ll keep count, all you need to do is to keep your position. If your feet leave the ground, the count starts over.” 

The first blow takes him by surprise - Berlin had stepped over to his side and Martín can see, when he peeks, that he’s watching the mirror. He watches Berlin watching him, and is so captivated by Berlin’s expression that he doesn’t even register when he moves, swinging his arm and landing a sharp slap right in the meaty part of Martín’s ass. He tenses immediately, hips forced to slide forward with the force of the blow.

Each blow is precise, measured, but Martín can’t estimate how hard it will land, or where. He still gets distracted by the pain, the instant burn that radiates outwards, even though the sweet grind of his cock begins to take over everything. 

Martín doesn’t realize that he’s been set up for failure until the second time one of his feet leaves the ground, flinching away before Berlin even gets to four. The count starts over, and Martín nearly sobs - it’s so much, but it’s frustration mostly, that Martín manages to rally behind and turn into determination to be good, to see it through. _He can_.

His eyes are fixating on the lines on his arms where the rope had cut pretty patterns in. Three lines around his wrists, three mid-arm, three under his elbows, three just above. He can almost feel their phantom press just as he feels the rope still wrapped around his chest and over his shoulders; the way it digs in and pulls when he shifts. Martín breathes through his nose, trying to focus on keeping his toes pressed to the ground despite the fact that he feels like he’s beginning to float.

By this point, they’ve started at least four times - Martín can’t be sure; he’s long lost track. Berlin counts after each blow but Martín's too caught up in the roll of his hips, the way his cock slides against that leather. It’s easier now, with the amount of precome he's been leaking. He’s close; so close, just a little bit more, just a little bit—

Berlin seems to have shifted again; his voice comes from behind Martín.

“We’re halfway through, Martín. You’re doing so well.” Martín’s skin burns sharper when Berlin’s hand caresses it than if it had been a blow, his brain scrambled and trying to process. “Color?”

“Ngh,” Martín pants, breathing hard, fighting for air through the awkward position of his body. “Green,” he manages to let out with a breath. His thighs are trembling, he wants— he wants it to be done, he wants to reach fifteen, but at the same time he needs it to continue. His ass is on fire, now that there’s a moment of respite he seems to feel all of it at once. With a needy whine, he pushes back, his body trying to signal that he wants more. He stops, cheeks coloring bright red when his ass connects with Berlin’s hips, where he’s so close, and even though there are a few layers between them, Martín can tell that he’s hard too. 

“If it gets too much, tell me.”

Berlin doesn’t seem to notice, or care, or mind - it’s complicated. Complex? Weird. Definitely weird. Martín vaguely remembers he’s been asked a question, tries to push away anything else in his head. 

“Yes.” 

That was enough words for Martín who was channeling most of his attention to the throbbing of his cock and the tight, slick slip of it under body, before another blow lands and things get blurry again. 

“If you make a mess, you’ll have to clean it up.”

 _‘If’_ , like Martín had any say in what his body did anymore. He can’t stop the roll of his hips - _doesn’t want to_ \- and Berlin’s warning only spurs him on. He’s humping the back of that chair, the slide of skin against leather made easier by all the precome he’s leaking. The rush of blood to his head mixes so well with the thrill he gets when he suddenly becomes so aware of his stance, when muscles he seemingly hasn’t used in ages start to burn. 

Berlin's arm grabs at the thick weave of rope between his shoulders, pushing him back down when Martín jumps with the particularly sharp edge of a blow. Berlin could have gone softer with his hand, but he didn’t, and Martin is grateful for that. Underneath his merciless blows, he reads Berlin’s trust in Martín’s ability to make it to fifteen; so he does.

Martín doesn’t register the ‘fifteen’; he hears it but it’s just sounds to him - he manages a weak whimper when he finally understands what Berlin said.

"You’ve done so well, Martín.” The words fall like a balm on Martín’s skin. He doesn’t know what to do; his muscles jump with strain but it feels like his feet are planted to the ground, and needily grinds his hips forward without even realizing it. “Do you want to come?"

"Yes. Oh my god, yes."

"Hmm. You'll have to ask nicer."

"Please. Please let me come, I'm so close, please!" 

“Do it.”

Berlin’s presence takes so much space in Martín’s awareness, how he moves to his side, how he watches, how hard he breathes. It would be the second time he’s seen Martín come, seen him at his most vulnerable.

Soon, Berlin disappears, taking with him everything that isn’t Martín’s own body, his arms sinking in the seat cushion, the rope wrapped around his chest, and his cock, so hard, so close. He doesn’t care what he looks like; he doesn’t care what sounds he makes, all he cares about is the feeling that’s pooling inside him, converging to one point, before it erupts. He comes with a sob, hips twitching as he spills in the narrow space between his belly and the chair. 

The whole world is set on pause for a few minutes, when all that Martín can hear is his own breath and the beat of his heart.

He’s still coming down, his body sagging into the cushioned leather, hands almost giving out when he hears Berlin’s voice.

“You’ve made a mess.”

He has. The streaks of come shine and drip down the back of the seat, it coats his cock and his skin; he feels disgusting. This is disgusting. 

Still, he just— takes half a step back, falls on his knees, touches the leather with one shaky hand as he leans closer, opens his mouth and draws his tongue up through the slickness. It pools, cool and slick and bitter, onto his tongue; the taste of it is strong enough to hide the underlying sharp taste of chemicals coming from the leather. He goes again, and again, moving to clean up all that he can see - it _is_ disgusting. 

He loves it. 

Martin moans, mouth open and breath ghosting over the dark leather, filled with this rush-sensation that echoes between his legs, in his spent cock he’s relishing in the acute awareness of his body as he’s doing it. He swallows before he moves to a new spot, not bothered by his debauchery as much as he is by how much he loves the feel of it.

There. All clean. The leather glistens with his saliva now, but it’s— 

"Fuck," comes Berlin's voice, the curseword so foreign coming from him. "you're so fucking good, so good; look at you." 

Martín whimpers, falls onto Berlin’s body when he drops to his knees by his side. 

“You did amazing, Martín. Look at me.” It’s not comfortable, it’s a weird angle and it feels like it’s too much effort to twist his body to see Berlin, who waits until he’s sure that Martín looks at him. “You were perfect.” 

They stay on the floor for a while, with Berlin cradling him in his arms until Martín comes down.

He has to stand when Berlin unties the chest harness, and it’s not as easy as it should be. Berlin supports him throughout, whenever Martín’s body needs to be steadied or downright propped, and leads him to the bed, where Martín lays on his belly and just blinks, aware of nothing. 

“I’ll be back with some aloe.”

Fortunately, Berlin returns quickly enough that Martín doesn’t worry that he’d fall asleep. He rubs the cold gel into Martín’s upper things, into the smarting skin of his ass with a seemingly clinical touch. 

“There. You’ll be feeling this for a while, but it won’t leave marks.”

It’s disappointing, to a degree; the amount of abuse his ass has gotten seems like it warrants at least some bruises, but Berlin seems confident that there won’t be any, so Martín believes it. He sort of wishes there would be a mark, some sort of reminder. He can’t wait to go to the bathroom and see it for himself - his skin pulses with his heartbeat now, and it does hurt, but not— Not at all in a bad way.

“Um,” Martín begins, then loses the precise verbiage he’d found. 

“Yes?”

“Is it really okay that I— climax?” This had to be the most sexual not-sex Martín’s ever had. _Twice_. “It’s not, I don’t know, weird?”

Berlin gets up, gets himself a wipe and cleans his hands - Martín feels silly now, laying on his front like that, ass-up, despite— well, despite all that’s happened recently to his ass. He still rolls to his side, trying not to overthink his nudity - Berlin didn’t seem to mind. He didn’t seem to mind quite a number of things. 

“Not at all. Everyone reacts differently, I’ve seen my fair share of cathartic experiences; some people cry, others orgasm. This is just how your body processes it, there’s nothing to feel inadequate about.”

“It’s not— weird?”

“Weird? The furthest thing from it. Knowing that I facilitated those emotions in someone, that release - whatever form it may have taken - it’s— quite a rush. I take pleasure in providing pleasure; don’t think that I don’t enjoy this every bit as much as you do.”

“Oh.”

Martín has seen just how much Berlin was taking pleasure out of it - his erection seems to have lessened now from what Martín can see, but he’s still hard.

Still not mentioning it.

“You did wonderfully. How do you feel? Hopefully not ‘weird’.”

“I feel great.” Okay, so not exactly the most descriptive of words, since Martín felt open and energized and even that cliched ‘ _free_ ’. But ‘great’ was the best he could do, so he smiles, brings his shoulders up and hopes it’s enough for Berlin.

Fortunately, it seems to be.

“I’ll let you clean up and get dressed.”

Martín spends very little time actually getting himself clean. He swishes some water around before spitting, washes his hands and combs his wet fingers through his hair to get it in some sort of order again, then gets transfixed by the indentations left in his skin by the rope, and the pink and red that’s blooming on his buttocks. The skin is still hot when he touches it, hissing more at the expectation of pain than its intensity. Still, he’s sure that he will feel it for a while, just as Berlin has said.

He was wrong to assume that he’d be feeling less awkward when paying - somehow, this part still feels as uncomfortable as it did the first time. Berlin takes the money and puts it in his pocket, not once looking at the bills.

“See you on Thursday. I will be checking in, but this time don’t wait for my call if you’re struggling with anything. And don’t forget about your homework.” 

“Um, of course. Yes. I will.”

“Take care, Martín.”

And he leaves, walking for the longest time until he decides to take the subway home. 

Martin thinks of nothing but his homework.

**Author's Note:**

> So this is a trope I’ve seen in many a fandom, and it’s been on the top of my mind for a while so I finally got it down. It’s not going to be a very long fic, but it will get smutty & kinky (ahem - premise) and there will be a lot of rope, because I am a one-trick poRny, apparently.
> 
> Watch the tags, they will update with each chapter.


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